


Defiant

by Kami_del_Antro



Series: Defiant Heart [1]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Asura (Guild Wars), Charr (Guild Wars), Female Commander (Guild Wars), Gen, Norn (Guild Wars), Origins, Sylvari (Guild Wars), all my commanders are female now that I think about it lol, commander week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_del_Antro/pseuds/Kami_del_Antro
Summary: From the Shiverpeaks to the Maguuma jungle. From the Black Citadel to Rata Sum. The humble beginnings of the greatest heroes Tyria has ever seen; before the Guild, before the Dragons, before the Heart of Thorns, before the anger of Gods and the glory and the dead.The Slayer | The Valiant | The Traitor | The ProdigyDay 1: OriginsWhere does your Commander come from? How did they grow up? Who influenced them when they were young and impressionable? What were their goals and aspirations? If they are Sylvari, what was it like waking up from the Dream?
Series: Defiant Heart [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908832
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Defiant

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very late contribution to Commander Week, because I can't do anything short and easy and I just couldn't help to jump to write about all my main commanders, half of the famed guild Defiant Heart.
> 
> Day 1: Origins  
> Where does your Commander come from? How did they grow up? Who influenced them when they were young and impressionable? What were their goals and aspirations? If they are Sylvari, what was it like waking up from the Dream?

**The Slayer**

****

Turbulent wind swept Gaerta’s Summit, and tiny snowflakes made Sinéad’s dark hair look like a starry sky, waving behind her as she made way through the storm. The recent cut on her brow -consequence of an untimely wrestling match with Frozenhorn, the powerful minotaur that had earned her the right to be there. Beside her, other young norn advanced through the snowblind; careful, fearful. Scared. She smirked. She could smell their fear.

“Be swift, hunters,” Sinéad suddenly heard beside her. She glanced over at Eir Stegalkin in the flesh; bow in hand, a wolf at her feet. “But be careful. The Frostgorge Ghost is more dangerous than anything you have faced before.”

“I ain’t afraid of a leopard,” Sinéad muttered through a grin. “I’ve killed worse.”

She felt Eir’s eyes on her; stern as a mountain in her cold gaze. But not even her disapproval could shake Sinéad’s burning confidence, as she elbowed Skarti.

“Are you afraid, Knutson?” she teased. Skarti groaned.

“Shut the fuck up, Steinbrecher,” he murmured. “Not now.”

“So you are.”

“Stop it!”

A brief yell, and the telltale sounds of gutter, made both hunters perk up. They couldn’t see anything in the blizzard; nothing disturbed the snowflake’s dance. Eir had vanished from Sinéad’s side. She and Skarti were suddenly alone.

Sinéad held her warhammer up, advancing through the summit step by step. Behind her, Skarti held his sword up high.

Another scream, and more gore. All over the place they heard the thump of a body, the slash of claws, the low, guttural grunt of a life ended in a fell swoop. Sinéad and Skarti shared a brief glance, before advancing towards the sound back to back.

“Fresh blood on the snow,” Sinéad murmured.

“No signs of struggle,” Skarti noted.

“It killed them with a single pounce.”

“If we stop it before it pounces…”

“We might make it,” they muttered at once.

The snowblind carried the primordial song of dragons, dancing around the hunters in menacing embrace. Sinéad breathed in deeply, closing her eyes, clearing her mind.

Many winters ago, the snowblind raged on her ears, as the snow climbed up to her waist. She was young; unprepared for the harsh world outside. A child, lost in the wilderness, trying to prove her worth. In her heart, a fire - the call of glory that had killed so many before her.

But instead of cold death she found golden eyes, sharp claws, bared teeth. Snow Leopard looked into her soul, and found her worthy of Her grace. As she opened her eyes, the same golden shimmer of a predator appeared on her gaze. The eyes of a predator, that set her apart from her kin of blacksmiths and artisans.

The sound of paws in the snow was as soft as feathers, but distinct from the roaring of the storm. And the razorblade claws cut the air with a soft whistle.

With a roar, Sinéad blocked the pounce of the creature with the handle of her hammer, pushing it aside. She could barely catch a glimpse of its powerful figure; the strong limbs, the powerful shoulders, the hungry fangs. A deadly prey. A worthy prey.

“Wolf’s maw!” Skarti exclaimed. The being scrambled on its paws, and promptly vanished once more.

“It’s coming back!” Sinéad announced. “On your left!”

With a grunt, Skarti blocked the blow with his swords, wrestling with the leopard’s titanic strength. Sinéad blocked it once more, and as they turned and fought they slowly realized they were at a stalemate.

“It’s tiring us down,” Sinéad grunted. Skarti nodded.

“We need another plan.”

Sinéad wondered how many hunters were even alive at that point, if any. Skarti and her danced with the storm, and it seemed as if they were the last norn alive in the world. Each of the dead hunters they had found were alone; killed from behind, in a single, silent blow. The leopard knew how to kill inexperienced, scared hunters - or how to drive them to that point. It would only deliver a decisive blow if it thought it had driven them to that point.

“Skarti,” Sinéad muttered. “I’m gonna make a run for it.”

“What?!” Skarti exclaimed. Sinéad elbowed him, angry.

“I’m gonna make a run for it, and it’s gonna try to kill me,” she explained. “Don’t let it do it.”

“This is madness, Steinbrecher,” Skarti grunted. “You’re gonna get us killed-...”

“Eyes up!”

Sinéad ran towards the unknown, and immediately felt the powerful presence running beside her. She smirked, as the leopard got closer, and closer. Her heart pounded, adrenaline pumping at the perspective of certain demise. But she wasn’t afraid. It was but the first step on the way to her legend.

The Frostgorge Ghost pounced, and Sinéad roared, stopping dead on her tracks, spraying snow and frost as she slid to a halt. And when she saw the golden eyes of the predator, she also saw Skarti appearing from the white void, tackling the beast out of the way.

Without losing a beat, Sinéad jumped on top of the beast, pushing the handle of her hammer down as the leopard tried to wrestle her off. Using her knee to press down further, she punched the beast with her free hand, her roars echoing the Ghost’s.

“Skarti!” she yelled, as the norn ran up to her, sword in hand. And with a loud yell, he buried the sword on its throat.

The leopard scrambled and fought still, until with one last roar, Sinéad clasped her hands together, striking the blade down further.

The storm began to clear. In the summit, surrounded by corpses, Sinéad and Skarti raised up from the icy floor, sprayed with the hot, steamy blood of the beast they had just slayed.

“It’s done,” Skarti murmured, panting. “By Bear, it’s done.”

Sinéad, however, roared as she held on to the Frostgorge Ghost’s corpse, raising it above her head, facing the most northern mountaintop that surrounded the summit.

“Jormag!” she yelled, invoking the rage of the fleeing storm. “I’m coming for you! This is only the beginning!”

On the opposite edge of the summit, with Garm at her feet, Eir Stegalking watched the scene with pondering eyes and nostalgic thoughts. She was too cocky, too impulsive. Too dangerous. But so was the roaring fire in the forest, and it still served a purpose on the great scheme of things. Perhaps she could be tempered. Perhaps she could be honed like a deadly instrument of righteousness.

Perhaps hope was a sunrise away.

* * *

**The Valiant**

****

The single, most fascinating thing in the whole garden was a single, lush rose. Irene watched it grow, but when she blinked, she wasn’t sure it was a rose anymore. Was it a blue flame, protected by thorns? Was it a lush rose, protected by flames? It changed before her, and when she tried to grasp it, it always seemed to get further and further away.

She was used to the feeling of observing everything from behind a transparent wall of some sort -glass, as the Dream had shown it to her, was the most accurate description-. Always peering from afar, intruding, or crossing over, other sylvari’s Dreams. The symbols of her own destiny were not clear for her. And she’d rather spend her days in contemplation of the ghostly fireflies, hearing the tender whisper of Ventari on her ears.

“Life can be painful, but do not fear the trials you will face,” he said, instructing his captive audience. “Hard ground makes stronger roots.”

And suddenly, behind the clouds, a shimmer appeared. Irene contemplated it, fascinated by its beauty, afraid of the sudden immensity of the indifferent sky. _The moon_ , she thought, grasping at concepts she was yet to learn. But as the clouds parted and the sky opened, she saw not the moon, but a shield. Strange, warm comfort came from its shape. Its glow made her feel at ease, full of something yet to discover. Nothing could’ve made her happier than to bask in its beauty, to lie below its sign.

A rustle in the forest made her look down, however, alarmed. Murmurs reached her ears; echoes of impressions of voices. Irene sat up, and found the rose and the flame in front of her; right at her grasp.

She tried to reach them.

_Shield. Silence. Agony. Harbinger. Secret. Stranger. Poison._

_Nightmare!_

The earth cracked, and from its wound bursted thorny vines. Irene yelped and jumped back, and for once, she felt the echoes of her voice through the garden, repeated by some of the Dreamers as she crawled backwards, away from the grasping thorns. The ground itself seemed to ooze some kind of venom, darkening the land, killing whatever it touched.

Irene scrambled to her feet and ran, terrified of something she couldn’t name, but kept echoing in her mind. Nightmare. The dark corners of the Dream, rising up to meet the sky, to swallow it whole.

As she ran, Irene found other Dreamers; some confused, looking around, almost incorporeal as they tried to locate the disturbance. And the young Dreamer gasped upon seeing one of the thorny vines grasp at one of them, erasing their shape as the traveler dissipates mist with their hand.

Chaos and confusion reigned in what was supposed to be a sanctuary. And yet, Irene could only think about the moon, and the rose, and the flame, as she looked around for a sign. For anything. She felt the pulling, the yearning, the emptiness of a purpose unfulfilled. But she was weak, and young, and alone.

Among the chaos, however, she saw light. White hair, melancholic eyes, pleading words. Irene saw her clear as day despite her being incorporeal. And she knew of her like a sylvari knows another.

“Valiant!” she called, locking eyes with Irene. “Yes! Can you see me within the Dream?”

“I see you,” Irene said, running up to her. “What’s going on? Who is cutting and burning and killing in this garden?”

“A great evil is working its poison in this sacred land, and I need your help.”

“Why me?” Irene asked, confused.

“Your spirit is strong; you can see me, you are aware of the danger,” Caithe explained. Upon Irene’s hesitance, her gaze turned harsher. “Do not underestimate yourself. You’re alive; it means you’re stronger than you realize.”

A pause, as Irene feared the ruin and the pain around her. But still, she nodded.

“Very well. I trust you. Show me the way.”

As they ran through the Dreamscape, Irene saw shadows. Dark shadows of evil intent, and shadows of things long past. But she also saw light; light in a group that defied the darkness with the fire in their hearts. As the shadows of rotten monsters and wild beasts passed, Irene could still see them; two giant women, two sylvari, a tiny being of long ears, and the big, muscular figure of a feline creature, standing tall in the middle of the chaos. But the sylvari hero in front of her ran past a bridge, and Irene lost them in the confusion.

They reached a clearing among the dense forest, where a big, old tree grew undeterred. Irene hesitated once more, however, under the shadow of its far-reaching branches; there was something wrong, something foul about the way it grew, grasping at the sky, trying to tear it down. But before she could make note of it, the sylvari hero gasped.

“Wait,” she murmured, a hand on her chest. “I feel-...”

A bright light lit her up from within, and the sweet perfume of unknown flowers filled the air as she floated above the ground for brief seconds. When she dropped, however, she was no longer a ghost, or a shadow. She was Caithe, of the Firstborn, just as Irene had seen her in her Dream.

“The Pale Tree is lending us Her aid in this grim task,” she murmured, taking her daggers out. “Be ready for anything.”

Irene thought she was. Until the earth beneath her feet trembled and cracked.

The cursed grove raised up with the body of a Dragon; a terrible, foul beast of earth and bark. Its roar paralized Irene on her feet, as she grasped at her belt and found a scepter she didn’t remember ever having, or learned how to use. But when she contemplated it, it was as if she had always known how to wield it.

“Take heart, Valiants!” Caithe said, ready to jump into action. “We will protect the Dream.”

As Irene launched her attack, she realized she wasn’t alone. Caithe viciously attacked, from shadows and crevices, but there was someone else beside her. She felt the warmth of fire, and the tender caress of life breathing into her. On one side, a fragrant rose of fire, water, earth and storm. On the other, the blue flame which cleansed all evil, chased all shadow.

They fought as if they were born to fight - together. A dance of magic and metal, of elements and arcane whispers. The fear of the beast became nothing upon the knowledge, the certainty, that those were her siblings in arms. Giralein and Gialinn; destined lovers, forever her home.

The shadow, the poison, fell as they fought. And the three valiants shared a cheerful hug, as Caithe approached them.

“It’s finished,” she announced. Not a smile, not a glimmer of happiness on her eyes as she talked. Only the tiredness of endless secrets. “The Dream is safe against this poison, thanks to you.”

The light became blinding. Giralein, Gialinn and Irene tried to grasp at each other, but to no avail. As they were further and further away, Irene tried to call out for them, to tell them to wait for her arrival.

But she didn’t know their names. She couldn’t remember their faces.

“We’ll see each other again in the waking world, soon.”

* * *

**The Traitor**

“They’ve broken through!”

Kara perked up, ears and tail up in attention as Brando, her devourer, clacked its pinsirs in the air. Beside her, Reeva, sniffed the air.

“Smells like gunpowder,” she announced. “I would know; had to scrub our damn tanks for weeks now.”

“Reeva, shh,” Kara instructed, getting up from the bar and walking outside, Brando at her heels. Reeva groaned, before following suit.

“It may be just another one of those proding attacks,” Reeva proposed. “Ghosts love those. They love to make us waste our time in general. C’mon, I’m sick of cleaning tanks; I just want some whisky.”

Ignoring her, Kara walked towards a Legionnaire, yelling orders and instructing a group of Blood to push forward.

“What’s the situation?” she asked. The Legionnaire scoffed.

“You Iron folk should get your heads out of your tanks from time to time!” he castigated. “The ghosts broke through our defenses - again. But this time, Barradin is giving out the orders.”

“Barradin?!” Reeva exclaimed. “That old fart is back so soon?”

“Seems like Ash’s Ghosttrap wasn’t that much of a difference,” the Legionnaire grunted. Then, he growled at Reeva and Kara. “What in Bane are you waiting for anyway? To the frontlines - double time!”

“Now this is work!” Reeva yelled, sword and pistol at hand. “No more tank scrubbing! Let’s scrub some ghost tail!”

On their way to the frontlines, Kara realized the situation was dire. Ghosts climbed up on the barricades; condemned souls echoing orders long since silenced by the Foefire. It took her only a passing glance to realize what the problem was; harpy nests too near the fortifications. One good scruffle was enough to weaken the outermost defenses. The ghosts did the rest.

“Wizard at twelve!” Reeva warned, shooting a round of her pistol towards the spectral human. She howled in glee when it exploded in a blue mist. “These new rounds are the bomb, Kara!”

“Careful!” Kara roared, grabbing Reeva’s hand and pulling her backwards as a spectral arrow whistled its way over her head.

But before Kara could load an arrow of her own, a savage, huge charr warrior fell over the ghost, tearing it to pieces. He roared and posed with his sword, before launching himself towards another enemy.

“Maverick, you selfish prick!” Reeva called out, escaping Kara’s grasp to join him. “Let me have some of that too!”

“I’m ten ghosts ahead of you, Reevs!” he replied. “Howl said last one would pay for the whisky!”

“Where’s Howl?” Kara called out, as Brando took down a ghostly warrior who tried to reach them. Maverick shrugged as he mowed the enemy down with his blade.

“The boss just charged ahead, as always!” he said. Reeva scoffed, hitting a ghost with the hilt of her sword.

“How rude!”

“I’ll go ahead to join him,” Kara stated, suddenly worried. Her Warband, however, seemed perfectly content with the battle ahead of them.

As she ran across the war-razed plains, Kara caught glimpses of her friends. Her family. The only Warband she had ever known. Dinky, with his mace and shield, bashing the hardest to compensate for his small size; Clawspur, striking from the shadows and vanishing again in a puff of smoke; Euryale, enveloped in flames, casted aside even by other warriors. Magic users. Weirdos of all kinds. The Grim Warband; forgotten in the butt-end of the battle, often assigned tank cleaning duties. A loving family all the same.

The telltale sounds of clashing steel guided Kara towards the entrance of the crypt, guarded by a Blood Legionnaire who jumped at the sight of her. He immediately stood up straight, attempting to look imposing despite Kara easily towering over him.

“Halt, soldier!” he ordered. “This gate is to remain closed until the area is clean of ghosts. Tribune’s orders.”

“But my Legionnaire is inside the crypt,” Kara argued, grimacing. “Sir.”

“Well that’s a whole lot of not my problem, soldier,” the Legionnaire replied, fangs bared. “If your Warband is such a sad nest of undisciplined skritt, then whatever happens it’s bound to happen already.”

Kara frowned, and Brando hissed at the Legionnaire who grinned at her. He hated the soldier kind. He hated the blasted, useless hierarchy of the Citadel. But orders were orders, and she was in no place to disobey.

Flame traitor’s offspring had to keep their heads down, after all.

“What in Bane do you think you’re doing, Steelbane!” a voice roared, and another Legionnaire jumped in front of Kara and pushed the charr aside. “By Smoldur’s missing eye, the battle’s in the crypt!”

“I’m following orders, Legionnaire Gallowfoil,” Steelbane roared, bumping chests with her equal. “This is a tactical position which-...”

“Open the gate or I’ll be holding your head!” she roared, making Steelbane scramble to obey. She then turned towards Kara, signaling her to follow suit. “Let’s go! Rytlock needs reinforcements.”

The way down would be forever engraved in Kara’s memories. The thick, stone walls swallowed the battle outside, and only the hint of blue, ghostly flames on steel marked the way to go. Howl bashed incorporeal skulls, and cut down spectral bodies, with the brash, intense personality he always had. And he always had nothing but a broad grin towards her favorite ranger.

“Took you some time to get here, Kara!” he greeted. “I’ll be right behind you - lemme have my fun first.”

Kara chuckled, shaking her head, as Brando greeted Howl with a clacking of his pinsirs.

“I’ll be waiting, Legionnaire.”

She always thought she should’ve been more thankful to him. After sweeping the floor with one of Blood’s most important Warbands, her reputation seemed to be going down the drain once more. But Howl liked brash, aggressive weirdos who took no shit - mostly because he was one of them as well.

The clank of steel on steel vanished in the empty, cold corridors behind.

But Kara wasn’t thinking about Grim back then. Her ears raised up in attention, and her whiskers felt the air in front of her with eagerness. For behind the corner, Rytlock Brimstone stood in front of his soldiers, all might and fire with his magic sword at hand. Despite herself, Kara felt her heart beating faster. Tribune Rytlock Brimstone. _Runtlock_. Deep within every Gladium and every pariah, the desire to meet him, to be on his footsteps, burned in their souls.

“Fall in, soldiers!” he called, and both Kara and Brando, feeling her excitement, joined the group along Legionnaire Gallowfoil, who nodded at her in acknowledgement. “We’re going to hit Barradin so hard it’ll take him weeks to reappear. Double time!”

Waving his sword forward, Rytlock took the vanguard, and Kara followed suit with the rest of the archers. They destroyed the ghost’s reinforcements in their advance; a wave of flame and iron, a mist of shrapnel and gunpowder. Kara roared, and Brando chirped, as she switched to her heavy broadsword to advance with Rytlock. He glanced at her and smirked, and Kara grinned - her face stiff because of the lack of genuine smiles.

But the stone statue in front of them cracked and moved, and howled with the combined rage of a thousand souls trapped forever in the ruins they used to call home. It roared and glared at the combined forces of the charr, raising a spear above its head.

 _“Filthy animals!”_ it yelled; its voice cold echoing through the chamber. _“You’ll regret this transgression!”_

“Hit it hard, soldiers!” Rytlock called, defiant in the storm of rocks and debris. “We burned down his kingdom and buried the ashes. Make him remember!”

A wave of the ghost’s spear threatened to cut Rytlock down, but Kara stopped it with a roar and a strike of her broadsword. As she sweated and grunted, sparring with the statue, she could feel Rytlock’s gaze on her once more. She had to prove herself worthy, as always. She had to prove herself indispensable. That way, they would forget her cursed blood. That way, she could live in peace.

“Forward, Legions!” Rytlock ordered; flames rising around him, swirling around his sword. “Finish him for good!”

He then advanced with a roar, and so did the vanguard, and so did Kara and Brando beside her. The statue cracked and its head fell limp, for everyone’s rejoice. Kara took a deep breath. It was over. Finally over.

But the statue collapsed, and Barradin’s scream shook the chambers to their very core. An earthquake demolished corridors and walls, and Kara looked back to her fellow soldiers, searching. But there wasn’t a familiar face among the crowd. Howl wasn’t there.

Howl, and Grim, was lost forever. And Kara was alone, as Rytlock raised Sohothin above everyone’s heads.

“You’re heroes now, boys and girls,” he announced. Only one paw didn’t meet the rest in the air.

* * *

**The Prodigy**

****

Varkk pulled on his ears so hard Zeri thought that he would pull them off for a brief second, before returning to her calculations.

“What do you _mean_ you won’t be _available_ to work on our entry for the Snaff Prize?!” he grunted, gritting his teeth. The young asura shrugged her shoulders, introducing numbers on her writing pad with indifference.

“I know for a fact you graduated with honors from your grammatics and language classes, Varkk,” she reminded him, grinning. “You know what words mean.”

She grabbed a fried grub from a nearby plate, crushing it between her sharp teeth as she worked. She frowned, turning on her chair and writing upside down. Varkk pulled on his ears again, red as a beet, before breathing in and slowly exhaling.

“Do I need to remind you that not only mine, but your prestige is at play in this situation?” he explained, eye twitching. “This krewe can’t fail. We’re at a clear disadvantage; we’re not presenting a golem, and-...”

“I’m the youngest college graduate in the history of Rata Sum,” Zeri cut him; in her eyes, the sparkle of a thunderstorm when she addressed her krewe leader. “It isn’t _my_ prestige at play here, Varkk.”

She had joined Varkk’s krewe as a sign of good faith; he had the discipline, but not the bravery, nor the brains, to pull his most ambitious projects off. She had both - everyone knew that. And she would remind Varkk of that fact whenever possible.

Her point was made. Varkk grumbled, rubbing his hands together, and finally lowered his ears.

“Don’t get killed,” he grunted. Zeri dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

“In the off chance that I die, dedicate the prize to me,” she suggested, tossing and turning once more and finally sitting up straight. “The Council will love the sentimentality and the drama of it all.”

Varkk stopped, curling his hands to fists, before huffing and leaving Zeri alone.

She raised one ear, looking at him push two interns out of his way as he walked, quickly leaving their shared laboratory behind. He didn’t understand. He would never understand, in fact. His mind couldn’t grasp Zeri’s greatness. He couldn’t begin to comprehend how important it was to catalogue, research, and correct disasters in the name of knowledge.

She jumped from her seat, leaving her datapad behind as she ran towards a tiny personal working station with a mirror installed. She grabbed two light blue ribbons and began fixing her long, white hair in buns, humming a melody she caught other young asura girls singing. She wouldn’t engage with them, of course, but she couldn’t help to indulge in the vain pleasures in accordance with her psychological development.

She grunted when one of her buns fell apart between her fingers, and tried brushing her hair once more. Until a cough made her look behind her, grimacing until identifying the one responsible.

“Ah, Pol,” she greeted her krewemate, going back to her attempts. “Is handiwork treating you well?”

“How did you know Varkk punished me for the sewer incident?” he whined, stepping up and blushing. Zeri shrugged, still trying to tie up her hair.

“I eavesdrop a lot,” she explained. “Like you, just now.”

Pol froze in place, but relaxed when Zeri pointed at her messy hair. He dropped his shoulders, beginning to brush once again.

“You know Varkk didn’t mean to insult you, right?” he said, shaping the bun and tying it with one of the ribbons. “We need you.”

“I know you need me,” Zeri grinned, showing off her sharp teeth with a hint of menace. “That’s why Varkk is jealous of me.”

“You think so?” Pol questioned, surprised. Zeri shrugged.

“I know it,” she explained. “He thinks making golems gives him some leverage above me. But it doesn’t. Golemancy is just vanity and dumb luck. The subtleties of Synergy, however, are the kind of refined discipline reserved only for the brightest.”

As Pol combed the second bun in its place, Zeri’s expression soured. She was brilliant, of course; the most brilliant prodigy in the history of Rata Sum, as she had reminded Varkk. But in the corners of her personal quarters of the lab, barely visible between equipment and successful experiments, there were the pieces of the golem she had tried to build to help her comb her hair. It would’ve ripped her scalp clean off her head if Pol hadn’t intervened with a well-placed wrench to its circuits. And deep, deep down, beyond the lab’s open ledge, she had blown off the evidence of her multiple failures.

Everyone knew Zeri was a genius. A genius with one glaring, severe flaw on her perfect record. She clenched her fists on her lap, breathing in, and closing her eyes. Everyone would forget about her flaw if only she made history. If only she managed the biggest discovery of the decade.

“Zeri,” Pol called her, his hands on her shoulders. “You don’t need to go there.”

His hands trembled slightly, and his breathing hinged. Like everytime they talked alone.

“You’re coming of age this year,” he reminded her. “And you’re smart. Too smart. Everyone knows you, and everyone’s been waiting for the day to come.”

Zeri raised her ears, glancing at him over her shoulder.

“The union proposals won’t stop coming, it’s what I want to say,” Pol muttered, stepping back. “You have a lot to look forward to if you just wait.”

A short silence, as Zeri turned her gaze towards her own reflection. Her hair was perfect now. No golem required.

“I’m not interested in finding a mate,” she said. Pol looked up at her, but she only had eyes for herself. “There’s too much to learn, too many experiments to conduct. There’s no time to nurture offspring. I can do so much more if everyone just lets me work on my own.”

Pol lowered his ears, but nodded, as Zeri finally turned and jumped down from her chair. She looked up at him, smiling broadly.

“I’ll still help the krewe, of course!” she assured him. “But my thesis will be so groundbreaking, it’ll revolutionize how asura think about magic to the end of time. I just need a bit of hands-on academic work!”

Pol still looked sad, and concerned. Zeri raised on her tippy toes, softly slapping him.

“I’ll put the krewe on my ‘acknowledgements’ section!” she assured him. Pol finally smiled.

“You’ll need any help with what you’re doing?” he asked. Zeri pondered carefully.

“I suppose I’ll need the muscle to my brain,” she commented, checking on the lack of engorged muscle tissue on her own arm. “Hiring an escort wouldn’t hurt.”

“Or I could go with-...” Pol began suggesting, but Zeri hushed him.

“Varkk will kill you,” she pointed out, making Pol lower his ears once again. “I’ll use my part of the funding for our Translocator to hire someone. And if everything else fails, I’ll use my scientific reasoning to solve any problem I encounter.”

She put a finger on her temple as Pol, once again defeated, took another step backwards.

“Our people are still dealing with the fallout from Thaumanova,” he weakly interjected, as Zeri put on a pair of working gloves and grabbed a backpack full of equipment. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“You know what they say,” Zeri recalled, shrugging. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. That’s the reason why you’ll never be a genius to your full potential, Pol!”

She waved him goodbye, skipping towards the asura gate outside the lab without looking back. In a heartbeat, she appeared in the central plaza of Rata Sum.

All she needed was a piece of the molten core and she would be set for success. Her name would adorn a whole section of Rata Sum, and even the Inquest would surrender to her genius for figuring out the secrets they neglected for their mistakes. Thaumanova was the centerpiece of a miracle; one only she could bear witness to and understand. Perhaps, after she presented her findings, she would be part of the Council, setting up another record impossible to beat. The first asura to ever have a seat in the Council before coming of age. It was perfect, deliciously perfect.

She grabbed another snack from her backpack, using a terminal to promote her endeavor on the holobillboards around the city. Once she had the correct amount of dumb muscle on her side, she would be unstoppable.


End file.
